Chapter Seven
Barry's Gold Watch
The guilt of taking Barry's gold watch began to overwhelm me.
I'm sure a good psychiatrist would have told me that there was nothing about the watch that really concerned me. After all, it wasn't like I'd actually stolen it or anything. He'd forgotten it and I'd put it on my wrist. If anything, I was holding onto it for safekeeping. In that little cubby, anyone could have stolen it. With me holding on to it, at least I knew where it was. I had always had every intention of returning it. When the opportunity presented itself.
But as The Shop whistle blew, and after the women of Production Line Number Six finally ceased in their toil, the guilt of taking Barry's watch began to eat away at me.
I returned to the break room to collect my jacket where my father happily slapped me on the back and asked about my day. As we both walked across The Shop yard toward the waiting trolley cars, a dark cloud of remorse grew over me.
I was in a sullen mood as my father jovially ribbed me about the events of the day. He was brimming with pride – his first day of work with his son. But I couldn't summon up the energy to be happy for him. That watch, that damn watch... I could feel the weight of it around my wrist. The band was cutting into my skin. I wanted to rip back my sleeve and tear the damn thing off my arm. But I couldn't risk my father seeing it. The shame of it, as I remembered Mr. Salmon seeing it on my wrist. Perhaps he hadn't made the connection. Perhaps I was just lucky enough to be a young man who owned a gold watch. But that look he'd given me when I was shaking his hand. He'd known. I know he'd known.
I had to return the thing to Barry.
At home, my father poured himself a celebratory McTavish and invited me to join him. Instead, I ran to my room and changed into my civilian clothes.
When I was dressed, I put the watch back into its little black box and went to find my father in the living room.
“Have a drink, Andrew!” my dad said as I stepped into the room. He had a glass in his hand and his cheeks looked flushed. It must not have been his first.
“Not right now,” I said. “That guy, Barry, the guy who's job I got...” I started.
“Yeah, Barry...” my father waved his glass nostalgically. “Great guy, you know back in the strike of '62...”
“Do you know where he lives?” I interrupted.
“Barry? Lives? What?” my father said, confused.
“Where's his house? He forgot his watch...” I held up the small black box, comfortable showing it to my father now it was out of sight. “The one he got for his retirement...”
“Oh, God!” my father exclaimed, taking the box from me. He opened it and looked at the watch in disbelief. “Poor Barry! All that fuss, must have put it down...” He closed the box and handed it back to me. “I'll find him in the book,” my father said and went to get the phone directory.
Luckily, Barry lived less than three blocks away, just on the other side of Roosevelt. I set out immediately to return Barry's watch, while my father poured himself another drink and saw about making dinner. It was a warm evening, but not yet sweltering, and the fresh air calmed my nerves. The whole day had been a schizophrenic experience, perhaps I was making too much of an issue over Barry's watch. Now, however, I had it in my head to return the watch right then and there.
As I walked up the path leading to Barry Winters' small, neat bungalow, I was preparing in my head the little speech I was going to give as I handed over the watch: “Here, this you left behind at work... I know it must have been a crazy day... It looks like a fine watch... All the best, and I hope you enjoy your retirement...” But I paused at the door and hesitated knocking as I became aware of the sound of loud music playing inside.
It was Sinatra. Some slow, syrupy melody. The six o'clock hour was always swing music, weekdays on the single state-run radio station, and Barry had it blaring away inside. That kind of music was still popular with people of my father's generation: Sinatra, Martin, Arnaz – the “ethnic” crooners. With my generation, it was all roots music. The early sixties had seen the “Appalachian Invasion” with a whole mix of bluegrass and fiddle acts. “Authentic” music. Fluky wasn't the only one affecting a backwoods accent that summer, or a dozen summers before it.
Musical tastes had come to differentiate the two generations – those that remembered the War and those born after. The youngsters got their music, starting at seven o'clock, on the government-programmed station that broadcast to the whole nation, but the rest of the day the radio was dominated by music for the old timers, Sinatra and his ilk.
It wasn't music that you normally played loud. I hesitantly knocked on the white, metal front door.
Somewhere inside, the radio faded to background noise and I could hear feet approaching. The door swung open and Barry stood there before me, with a crooked grin on his face.
“Here, you left this behind-” I began.
“Oh, it's you,” Barry interrupted, spinning on his heels. He was self-evidently very drunk as he careened back towards his living room, leaving the front door open behind him. I stepped inside, cautiously, holding out the small, black box. I just wanted him to take the damn thing, I didn't want to have to interact excessively. All the anxiety came washing over me again. Did he know I'd worn the watch all day? Had Mr. Salmon ratted on me? I wanted to turn and flee, but I also wanted the watch safely returned. I'd hate myself until he had his damn watch back. The guilt would eat away at me.
Barry took the corner off the hall into his living room and almost fell over sideways. To call him drunk was an understatement. He was absolutely hammered. He crossed the room and dropped into an arm chair beside the radio that was making all the racket. I stepped into the room still holding out the box. The room was in something of a tousled state. Books and knickknacks had been knocked off perches, something glass had been thrown and smashed against the far wall. Barry reached over and clumsily turned the radio back up, returning Sinatra to his original, earsplitting volume.
“I believe you left this!” I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the radio. Barry looked at me and watched my lips move, not comprehending. I held the black box up to his face and he looked at it strangely. He put his drink down on the arm of the chair, took the box, opened it, closed it, then handed it back to me. He said something, but the words were drowned out by the Chairman of the Board.
I stepped around Barry and turned the radio down.
“Keep it!” Barry yelled again, now far too loud.
“What?” I yelled back. We didn't need to be yelling.
“Keep it!” he yelled again.
“But,” I lowered my voice, “this is the watch they gave you today. You must have left it behind in your cubby. I found it this afternoon when I went to get my jacket,” I lied.
“You can keep it. Enjoy.” He picked up his glass and took a swig.
“I... I don't understand,” I flipped open the box and looked at the watch. It was a nice watch. It'd cost fifty dollars if you could find one to buy at all.
“Keep your fucking watch...” Barry said with bile. He wasn't looking at me, he wasn't talking to me, I just happened to be there.
I was at a loss. I had walked all the way over to return Barry's watch, but he didn't seem to want it. All the guilt I'd been feeling all day, and now to learn that he didn't want the damn thing...
“Here, just take it,” I snapped, shoving it into his lap. He slapped the thing away, sending it skipping across the room. It slammed up against the far wall and lay still. “What the hell?” I yelled, suddenly inappropriately angry.
“Get the hell out!” Barry snapped back.
I marched angrily across the room and picked up the box. I marched back and shoved it aggressively into his free hand. “Take it!” I sneered.
“Keep it!” he pushed the box back at me. “You've got my fucking job, keep the fucking watch!” His eyes were clouding up. I stepped back, suddenly shocked by his emotion, as he began to sob i
nto his empty hand. My anger, my guilt suddenly evaporated, to be replaced by pity. He was sobbing not like a man, but like a child or a drunkard. I quickly squirreled the watch away back into my pocket. How stupid of me to bring the silly thing over in the first place.
“I-I'm sorry...” I tried, but it sounded hollow. I didn't know exactly what I was apologizing for. Returning his watch? Stealing his job?
“Ah!” Barry gave me a dismissive wave and began to get a hold on himself. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his dress shirt and took a gulp of his glass. “I'm not blaming you. Do you blame the lion for eating the gazelle? No, it's just the law of the jungle, that's all.”
“I-I-I,” I stammered. “If I'd known...” But I didn't know how I was going to end that sentence.
“Oh, hell!” Barry said, realizing his glass was empty. He awkwardly began to pull himself up out of his chair. “You need a drink?” he asked.
“Yes,” I could only answer with the honest truth.
He refilled his glass from a carton of McTavish and poured a full measure into a second tumbler on a side table. He returned to his chair handing me my glass. “Twenty-five years,” he ruminated as he sipped at his drink.
I took a long slow belt of mine, emptying the glass.
The foul-tasting, sour whiskey burned as it went down. I gritted my teeth and swallowed hard as I let the drink settle itself in my belly.
“I really don't understand,” I said earnestly, that first drink fortifying me. “I've only done your job for one day, but...” I gulped, looking down into my empty glass, “it hardly seems worth shedding tears over.”
Barry was silent, sipping meditatively at his drink. I turned and helped myself to a refill at the side table, pouring a double and talking a long gulp.
“I mean, retirement seems better than being on your feet all day,” I said between mouthfuls, my back turned to Barry. “Do you want to keel over and die checking off four stupid boxes on a pile of stupid forms?”
“You don't understand,” Barry said, his voice suddenly weary. I turned around to see his head lolling. “Twenty-five years...”
“You should count yourself lucky,” I tried.
“Twenty-five years...” he repeated, as the drink got the better of him. The glass slipped slowly from his hand, but I was attentive and ready. I stepped forward and caught it in mid fall, spilling only a little of its contents. I put the glass back on the side table, along with mine, next to the McTavish carton.
From deeper in the house, from some hiding place, a middle-aged woman took this moment to emerge. She obviously knew from long practice exactly the right moment to show herself and when to remain hidden. With Barry quietly snoring, she appeared in the room, turned off the radio and silently began to tend to her husband. She didn't acknowledge my presence, or appear to even see me. She simply wiped a little spittle from the corner of his mouth, removed his glasses, and strained to lift him from his chair. I gave her a hand, pulling Barry up, and we carried him between the two of us out into the hall and down towards the master bedroom.
With Barry disposed of on the bed, she silently and without thanks started to remove his shoes. I took my leave, exiting the bedroom, then the house through the open front door, closing it silently behind me.
Then I remembered the watch in my pocket.
I contemplated stepping back in the house and leaving the black box by the door. Perhaps Barry would reconsider his revulsion to it when he'd had a chance to sober up. It was, after all, a very nice watch. It wasn't like you could just go out and buy a watch like it. At the very least he could sell it for quite a handsome sum. He might be repelled by the idea of the watch, but I'd wager he would be less emotionally disgusted by cash of the same value.
But I didn't turned around. I took the watch out of its box, noting that the crystal was now cracked. But it was still ticking and I slipped it onto my wrist. This time I did it without guilt or discomfort. There'd be no more feeling sorry for Barry. It was my watch now, I knew, if Barry didn't want it. Just like the job at The Shop would always be his.
You can't own something you don't value.
As if by magic, Fluky's wrecking truck came rolling to a halt in front of Barry house as I stood there at the curb, looking at the gold watch in the evening light. I looked up from the watch face and saw Fluky smiling at me through the passenger window. He leaned over and unlatched the door.
“Ya pa said you'd be here,” He said, straightening himself back up in the driver's seat. I stepped up into the truck and dropped into the passenger seat, closing the door behind me. Fluky fished behind him and came back with a carton of Frau.
I accepted the beer.
The Cordwainer Page 7